The cold breeze from the Atlantic brushed against Lucas's face as he stepped off the team bus into the crisp evening air of Vigo. The sky above was blanketed in a grey veil, thick with the smell of rain and the tension of a town that guarded its fortress well. Estadio de Balaídos loomed ahead like a sleeping beast, its heart waiting to be roused by the roar of loyal fans. Lucas stared at it for a moment longer than usual, something stirring inside him—a quiet promise, a whisper of destiny.
The hard-fought win against Getafe still pulsed in his muscles and bones. But there was no time to savor victories—not in a league where every point meant survival. Sevilla had clawed their way out of the relegation zone, but the margin was thin, fragile, easily broken. Tonight wasn't about celebration. It was about continuation. Momentum. Belief.
In the changing room, the atmosphere was sharp, focused. The air crackled with anticipation as the players suited up, lacing boots, tightening shin guards, taping wrists with messages of hope and strength.
Coach Ortega stood in front of the whiteboard, eyes locked on his team. "Celta Vigo isn't just another opponent," he said, voice low, firm. "They're beasts at home. Aggressive, organized, smart. But so are we. We've risen from worse. Stay compact, stay disciplined, and when you find space—strike."
Lucas sat with his headphones on, the sounds of home playing softly—waves crashing, samba drums echoing in the background, and a voice recording from Sofia, filled with cheer and love: "Vai, mano! Make them remember your name!"
He closed his eyes and saw it all—his father watching silently from the bar, pride buried under old scars… Maria, lighting candles in the small chapel back in Brazil… and Carlos, standing on the sidelines of a dusty pitch, yelling out, "Play with joy, boy! Play with freedom!"
**
As the team walked out into the stadium, the noise hit them like a wave. The stands trembled with chants, flares burned bright in the night sky, and the chants of the home crowd filled every inch of space with an intimidating chorus.
From the first whistle, Celta pressed high. They came at Sevilla like wolves—relentless, biting, clawing for the ball. Lucas barely had a second on the ball before being harassed by two defenders. They had studied him. He was no longer the unknown wonderkid. He was the marked danger.
Fifteen minutes in, the home team struck. A slick one-two sliced through Sevilla's defense, and a low-driven shot nestled into the far corner. The stadium exploded. The goal felt like a gut punch.
Lucas clapped his hands, trying to rally his teammates. "Heads up! We keep going!"
But inside, the weight of expectation pressed harder. Every touch had to matter. Every decision had consequences. He couldn't let his team down. Not now.
As the half progressed, Lucas began to find rhythm. A sharp turn here, a clever flick there. In the 30th minute, he slipped a disguised through ball into En-Nesyri's path, forcing a desperate foul just outside the area.
The free kick was his. He placed the ball, took a breath. Time slowed. He struck it cleanly—curve, power, placement. But the goalkeeper, fully stretched, tipped it over the bar. So close. Too close.
He screamed in frustration, punching the air. Not out of anger—but hunger.
Minutes later, he danced through two defenders and fired from the edge of the box. Over. Just over. The fans groaned, Sevilla's bench buried their heads in their hands.
**
Halftime. The locker room was quiet, heavy with missed chances and narrowed eyes. Coach Ortega didn't shout. He didn't need to. "You're playing with heart. But now play with conviction. One goal changes everything. You've been here before."
Lucas nodded silently. He had been here before—when the world doubted him, when the scouts laughed at his size, when his father said football would break his heart. And yet, he had risen.
The second half began with renewed purpose. Sevilla surged forward with more fire. In the 60th minute, Lucas intercepted a loose ball, weaved past a midfielder, and slipped a perfectly weighted ball to Navas on the right wing.
"¡Vamos!" Navas whipped in the cross, and En-Nesyri—Sevilla's tower—rose like a giant and smashed the header home. 1–1.
The bench erupted. The stadium, stunned, fell momentarily quiet. Sevilla believed again.
But Celta wasn't finished. They countered with venom. Every attack was sharper, every tackle heavier. The clock ticked mercilessly, and the game turned into a battlefield.
In the 82nd minute, disaster nearly struck. A clumsy challenge by Sevilla's center back handed Celta a free kick in prime territory. Lucas bit his lip, heart in his throat. He couldn't watch.
The shot curled with menace, but Bono, Sevilla's ever-reliable keeper, flew through the air and tipped it wide. Roars of relief exploded from the Sevilla bench.
And then, the moment came.
**
89th minute. A Celta corner was cleared. The ball landed at Lucas's feet near the edge of his box. Time froze.
Something took over him. Something primal, pure.
He darted forward.
One defender—gone with a burst of pace.
A second tried to clip him—Lucas spun away, keeping balance.
Midfield opened like a sea before him. He ran, heart pounding, legs screaming, but he didn't stop.
Thirty yards. Twenty. He looked up.
The goalkeeper was out of position.
He struck it with the outside of his foot—whip, curve, precision.
The ball flew like an arrow. Time slowed.
Top corner.
Goal.
Silence.
Then chaos.
The away section erupted. His teammates sprinted toward him, tackling him to the ground. En-Nesyri kissed his forehead. Navas lifted him up. "Magia, niño. Magia!"
Tears stung Lucas's eyes. It wasn't just a goal—it was a statement.
**
The final whistle blew.
2–1.
Victory.
The players collapsed in celebration. Some fell to their knees. Others embraced, too exhausted to speak.
In the locker room, the coach stood before them, hands raised. "That's what champions do. They rise. In the storm, in the fire—they rise. Lucas…"
He pointed to him.
"...tonight, you lit the fire."